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 Mr. Stott, sir, unless you start it up yourself."

The teller came in before Texas had finished speaking; a little wrinkled old man, wearing his hat with juvenile tilt over his left ear, walking in a veritable alcoholic fog. Stott addressed him as "major," with a word about the business ahead, and led the way to his private room, with "President" painted on its door. Texas closed the door after them.

Stott threw back the top of his desk with a clatter, and sat down, facing them, with his thick hands spread on his thighs, a surly defiance in his face.

"Accordin' to your intentions both of us ought to be dead down in the brush on Clear Creek," Texas said.

Stott leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, as if he had suddenly thrown away his worry and his ill-humor along with it, and had settled down into his unruffled business front.

"How far do you suppose your word would go against mine with the cattlemen on this range?" he wanted to know.

"I don't count," Texas admitted. "That's why I'm here to send you out to talk for me."

"You're a slick pair!" Stott sneered. "Now you're here, say something."

"One way or another, I aim to say enough to satisfy you, Mr. Stott."